No Last Glances
by manhattan martini
Summary: "The first time you see a person, do you think – do you think that's all there is to it?" Elissa sees, over and over. — Alistair/FemCousland


**A/N:** Endgame spoilers for Origins (The Ultimate Sacrifice).

* * *

The first time she sees him, the wound digging into her side is still too large, too fresh, and the Wilds carry a scent of burnt pine wood that brings her back to flaming stone, to her family's estate. She can still hear her parents' last words, ringing coolly in her head. They're her only company, her only drive, and she polishes her face into casual attention as his voice fails to penetrate her interest.

Alistair is handsome, tall, and cracks jokes under his breath. But Elissa is healing, uninterested, and only manages a polite smile before she allows him to escort her into the fortress.

* * *

The second time she sees him, it's with new eyes, when he's helping her set up camp.

He is prepared, and surprisingly neat, setting up his space beside hers, his face closed off when he is done, glancing around the clearing. Elissa is no stranger to living in the woods – a noble might be expected to be at a loss whenever plumbing is unavailable, but her mother was a warrior and her father a strategist, and the Cousland offspring are nothing if not prepared. She thinks of Fergus while she hammers the stakes into the ground, thinks of the watchtower, thinks of Loghain, and how he left Ostagar to die. Her stomach is tight and she feels guilty, though she doesn't know why – guilt is for those who've sinned, and Elissa hasn't, yet. Then she thinks of Howe, of his treacherous smile, pointy and deadly like his army's blades.

The hammer strikes the last stake with a dry sound and she pictures it's his head, open and splayed on the floor. Her stomach clenches.

Alistair watches her set up her tent with fidgeting hands, but she doesn't take the bait, refusing his help as quietly as he offers it. Elissa likes seeing things through to the end, always has, but nowadays she doesn't like relying on anyone else, and Alistair eventually stops making eyes at her tent, reluctantly sharpening his sword instead. The witch of the wilds keeps to herself, in the distance, her yellow eyes precise and controlling.

The camp is quiet, the air heavy and crisp, the loud snoring of her mabari cutting into the tension like his claws on an enemy's chest. The tent mounted, Elissa bids them a goodnight nod, and doesn't cry herself to sleep, but she thinks about it.

* * *

The third time she sees him, he's bleeding, falling to his knees with wide eyes, and Elissa is shouting at Morrigan to heal him, heal him, hurry, _please_ –

"You're the only one who knows," Elissa breathes, when the darkspawn threat fades into a ring of corpses around them, and Alistair is coming back. Her nails almost break when she grips at his chainmail, trying to keep him here, keep him alive through sheer force of will. "You're the only one who knows, so don't – don't you dare – "

She cuts off before she can reveal how much of a girl she still is, so unprepared to face the world despite how hard she's been trying: don't you dare leave me all alone.

"Yeah," Alistair replies, his voice not a decibel above a whisper, his eyes unfocused and half–closed but still slotting into hers. "I know," he adds, and Morrigan narrows her eyes in thought, but Elissa just straightens her back and helps him limp back to camp. It's the first time since Highever she's felt so fragile, listening to how his breath is wet and staggering, trying to catch up under the weight of his armor.

The day after, neither of them mention anything, just easy smiles and fake casualty. Alistair recovers wonderfully; Elissa feels scrubbed raw.

* * *

Leliana and Sten shift the balance: Leliana is warm, a bright and optimistic ray of light; Sten is too serious to talk, which means neither Alistair nor Morrigan can bicker with anyone else. This is the conclusion Elissa reaches when they're huddled around the fire and the silence is heavy.

_At least no one's fighting, this time around_, she thinks, rubbing her hands together, and that's the fourth time, when she looks up and spots Alistair on the other side of the fire. The warmth and the orange glow of the fire camp grab onto his face like a second skin, sharpening his features into – into someone older, but just as handsome –

"Hmm?" Leliana asks, smirking widely, one plucked eyebrow raised, and Elissa's throat goes tight just as her face grows warm. She looks to the side, too quick, too obvious, and almost immediately expects her mother to chime in with, "a proper rogue doesn't wear her feelings on her face," her voice stern, her eyes hard. It doesn't come, of course – there are only crickets and the popping of the burning wood. Leliana snickers under her breath, the sound soft, and Elissa feels sick, the left side of her side scorching as she closes her eyes and firmly doesn't think of Highever, in flames.

* * *

The fifth time, Lothering has been burnt to the ground. They see it in the distance, the sky above it still smoky and bubbling both orange and crimson. Alistair's jaw clenches, Morrigan's smile becomes a little less haughty, and Elissa turns away, leaving the village behind her back. Leliana says nothing, but Elissa catches the sadness in her expression as the other rogue stares at the ground.

They're on their way to Redcliffe, to the Arl, and Elissa has no time to lose. Howe is nothing if not vicious in her pursuit, and her likeness has been distributed across the southern part of Ferelden; the sooner she gets someone's support, the sooner she can guarantee her life. And the Arl is important, fair, and will not take her family's name lightly.

"Peculiar, isn't it?" Morrigan drawls, from behind her. Elissa doesn't have to turn to know the apostate is still staring at Lothering – Morrigan doesn't exactly hide her clinical fondness for human suffering. "We were there just weeks ago," she adds, then, probably for Alistair's benefit, just so he can retaliate, "and now there is nothing left."

Elissa thinks of the training yard, of the kitchens, of blood spilled and dripping down the stone stairways. Her mouth tenses into a line as she very deliberately ignores the conversation behind her.

"Do you have to sound so _pleased_ about it, though?" It's Alistair, rough and unusually curt, the timbre of his voice like a threat. Leliana keeps quiet as a mouse, falling in step with Elissa, glancing around like she's window shopping.

The trees of the path envelop them, finally cutting Lothering out of her periphery; the sight of dark greens and the quiet almost gives Elissa a moment of peace. But Morrigan strikes back, of course, probably grinning that beautiful, dangerous smile.

"Did I hurt your feelings? I'm ever so sorry," Morrigan starts, and the peak of anger surfaces from the dark, surprising even Elissa as she cuts in:

"Enough," she hisses, without turning back, the imagery of her parents kneeling stuck to her brain. The woods around her grow quiet, as if even the birds won't risk angering her. Morrigan silences, though her disapproval is loud enough to sting, and Alistair keeps walking, head turned to the side of the road. The only times he shifts his gaze is towards Elissa, the concern palpable.

She hates it. She hates that she takes notice of each time even more.

* * *

The sixth time, they're camping outside of Redcliffe; Elissa is worn ragged by the events, mind wrapped around the corpses, the Arl's son, Alistair's silence. After dinner, she manages to wrestle him into a nearby clearing, and asks, no-nonsense: "Was your father King Maric?"

Alistair's smiling expression shatters – it's the only word that fits – and drops like the shards of a mirror. Elissa's palms are cool, clammy, her fingers trembling.

"How did you know?" he asks, in a mutter. It's a punch to her stomach, though, and she has to take a breath before speaking. Her words fluff out in tiny, pallid wisps of vapor.

"You – " Elissa starts, looks away, unable to face him. His cheeks are still pink from the warmth, and if she's a pale apparition from the beyond then he's a desire demon from the fade._ You look like him_, is what Elissa meant. _I watch you all the time and you look like him so much._

She blinks, instead.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elissa almost feels guilty for taking the safest path. She's never liked playing the manipulative part, but she's a noble, and she's been raised to speak finely (amongst other useful things); Alistair is a Chantry boy, well-natured and warm-hearted, too just to suspect. He's no match for her, and that's why the guilt should weigh. But she feels light, as if she's practicing her momentum. The rush is there, too, and it makes her eager for confrontation.

He mumbles, clearly surprised, and she strikes again.

"You could've told me at Redcliffe, but you didn't. You should have told me, in fact, since I'm your commander, right?"

Alistair swallows. Elissa follows the movement with her eyes. Her throat is dry.

"I was … I thought – " he harrumphs, drags one hand down the right side of his face. Elissa barely suppresses a shiver. For a second, she regrets leaving the warmth of the camp fire, but then she steels herself, becomes the leader again. "I didn't know how to tell you, at first, and then I – well, it's just, it got complicated," he huffs, his frustration a stream of breath.

Elissa feels her resolve soften at the sight, remembers Ser Gilmore's defeated groans whenever she bested him in a duel, the weapons master and the blacksmith chortling at his expense –

It's hard to breathe in this cold, Elissa thinks, and then says it aloud. "Don't you think so?"

Alistair falters in his apologetic speech, surprised.

"I … I apologize. I shouldn't have pried. That wasn't fair to you," she says. "I'll – " and her voice breaks, along with the remains of her dignity, but she's a proud girl and she trudges on, "I'll make you some tea – as an apology."

Alistair blinks in rapid succession, the tips of his ears pink, and Elissa slinks by, anxious to escape the atmosphere. She's not ready for this, not while she's still so manic about fixing things, not while he's the only heir to an empty throne. But a calloused hand grabs at her wrist, breaking her out of her thoughts, and when she turns to look Alistair's expression is surprised.

"Wait, uh," he lets go, runs that hand across his hair instead, "I wanted to talk to you, anyway, so – just – _here_ – "

* * *

The seventh time, he's handing her a rose, and he's no longer the knight of the group – he's her knight now, _her_ knight, and Elissa can't believe she used to make fun of her servants' fondness for courtly love story books. Alistair's fingers are rough, but they're warm, and Elissa feels another shiver creeping up her spine at the thought of holding them, sliding her fingers between his. Her neck feels flushed as she fiddles with the flower.

"I – don't know what to say," is what she replies, her cheeks numb from the cold. That's not the only reason as to why she stammers; Elissa has always been more interested in learning the tools of the rogue trade than in the ones in marriage, and despite her silver tongue, there's something about feelings that gets her in a panic. Her mother had always been slightly proud of that, despite whatever attempts to set Elissa up with a noble boy she managed to come up with. Elissa adored her for it, because while she sharpened her skills into daggers and picks, felt accomplished by her combat skills, she saw her cousins married off to men with scowling faces.

Now, though, she can't help but to regret never paying much attention to her mother's "maiden tips", or whatever embarrassing name Eleanor had called them. Elissa is proud, and she is determined to be seen as both implacable and unstoppable, because she _must_ – she's the last of the Cousland, and she has to live up to her family.

No one else can.

Elissa is supposed to be in control, and with it comes the ability to at least pretend she is. It's regrettably easy, then, deflecting Alistair's questions without steering him off-course. It doesn't mean it's easy for her to do it, though, not when all she wants is to settle into his chest, press her face into his neck, feel the steady beat of his heart. She wants to kiss him, too, but first she just wants to make sure he's alive, that he's here, with her. So she tells him, whispering the words into the frosty night air.

Alistair proves it to her as best he can, wrapping his arms around her and hiding his face away. His neck is red, and Elissa suspects her ears are, too, but they both keep quiet and just … enjoy. _It's been too long since the last time someone's held me like this_, Elissa thinks, the fleeting memories of her mother's perfume paling in comparison to Alistair's shaving lotion.

Afterwards, Elissa feels embarrassed over how quickly she melted into his arms, but not enough to not do it again as she keeps him company through his shift. He tells her about Arl Eamon, about his sister, about Duncan. Elissa, leaning against his chest and staring at the fire, tells him about her parents, her brother, his wife and her cousin, about the crisp scent of Highever dawns. Alistair doesn't make a sound as he listens.

Leliana, however, croons from her tent eventually, getting ready to stand watch, and Elissa chooses the time to retreat, her face aflame and her mouth stuck into a stupid smile.

* * *

The eight time is in the following morning, when the dawn strikes him down in whites and pallid lavender, and Elissa kisses him on a freshly-shaven cheek, she can't help it, even if Morrigan makes gagging sounds and even if Leliana teases.

"You,"_ make me happy_, she realizes, "are very handsome, you know that?"

Alistair blushes (as he is seemingly wont to do), but he smirks anyway, and that one stupid smile lasts the entire day. It's fine – so does hers.

* * *

The ninth time is when Connor has been saved, at the expense of no one else. Alistair asks for a word when they're setting up camp, the relief in his eyes so warm Elissa almost wonders if someone's started the fire already.

"I just wanted to – thank you – " is what he's saying, his hands fiddling and gesturing as he takes a step closer, and Elissa's chest is fluttering, just like the first time she ever rode a horse …

"It's fine," she manages, a little out of breath. "If we stop the blight, we'll save many more."

"You're right," he realizes, grinning down at her, and even if Elissa is satisfied with that, satisfied with him, she can't help but to feel disappointed that he didn't kiss her right then.

* * *

The tenth time is when she's kneeling in the Broodmother's chopped-off tentacles, catching her breath and trying her best not to throw up. Alistair grabs her by the wrist, throwing her up and into his arms, and Elissa hides her face away, trying to block out everything around her, trying not to think of her mother's smile, trying not to think about how she could've been made into a mutation herself. Still can.

A concerned Leliana is pulled away by a counselling Wynne as Elissa just lingers, her face pressed into his neck. Alistair smells like metal, oil, and the sort of soap Elissa had never used back at the castle. She likes it more than she can put into words.

"Hey. You, er, you're okay, right?" he asks, eventually, when Leliana and Wynne have gone on ahead to loot the monsters' corpses. Elissa's cheek is flat and fresh against the chainmail as she kisses the space where his jaw connects to his ear. The surprised, choked noise he makes is one part hilarious and nine parts hot, but Elissa doesn't laugh or tease further, just pulls back and offers an unsteady smile. Alistair's face is flushed, and he looks away from her so suddenly she almost gets the urge to kiss him again.

"I'm fine," Elissa says instead, taking a final breath. He frowns, makes her aware there will be an interrogation the next time they're at camp. Elissa nods without really meaning to, brushing past his twitching fingers without offering her own. "Let's move on."

* * *

The eleventh time, his hands are nervous as he fiddles with the buckles of his armor, and the rest of the party has already turned in for the night. The fire crackles as he asks her, "So … do you think you might ever … ?"

Elissa cuts in, too winded up to mind her manners, her face warm. Alistair almost seems surprised by her hands on his shoulders, his ears pink.

"Yes," Elissa breathes, bringing him closer, and then she closes her eyes, doesn't see anything at all – this time, at last, she doesn't need to.

* * *

The twelfth time, it's when they argue over the future, because she's a noble and he's the royal bastard, and they're Grey Wardens, and, and –

"And I don't want to discuss this right now," Alistair replies, in a tone that closes her off better than the gates of a castle. Elissa's throat tightens at the sight of his expression, usually reserved for one of Morrigan's particularly barbed commentaries, and she's aware she must be making the sort of face that makes him want to touch her; Alistair's hands twitch, the metal creaking, but Elissa swallows the moment down, hiking her chin in dismissal and taking a fluid step back, escaping into her tent.

It's the first time she sleeps with her mabari since Ostagar.

* * *

The thirteenth time is when she allows him to kill Loghain. Queen Anora looks away, her face splattered, and Elissa, who has killed so many in the past, can't help but to feel queasy. _He could've served under me_, she thinks, _he could have helped us and then be dealt with_, she thinks, _you undermined my authority,_ she thinks. Has she ever been this selfish? Has she ever put Howe in front of the Blight? In front of Alistair?

_How could you_, she thinks.

"You or him," is what Elissa had said, just minutes before, a question in the form of a spoken thought. _Are you sure you want to play this game?_ And Alistair had nodded at her from the Arl's side, a darkness in his eyes Elissa had seen dozens of times in the mirror.

It hadn't been an easy decision: Howe's blood is on her hands, and she knows she could've never allowed Alistair to walk away from this – whatever it's become – but, at the same time, Elissa can't help but to wonder when her knight became so selfish.

It changes things between them, of course – when Riordan reveals their end of the bargain, Alistair's face becomes as stony as Shale's, and Elissa thinks of Loghain, a sacrifice wasted. She can't help it, for a second, to grab him by the shoulders and say, between grit teeth, "I won't tolerate such lack of obedience again," and it's the closest thing to a goodbye she's ever going to give him.

Alistair holds her gaze, almost defiant, and then looks away first.

* * *

The fourteenth time, she's bare and regretful under him, and she only closes her eyes when she comes, whimpering into his ear and holding him closer, closer, she needs him closer –

"I love you," Alistair huffs, into her shoulder, hot and moist, pressing kisses between breaths. "Maker," he says, voice wet like her eyes feel, "I love you so much – "

Elissa could almost cry. She doesn't; at least, not where he can see her.

* * *

The fifteenth time, they're charred and worn-out, and her legs are shaking with effort. Alistair straightens his back, adopts the position every tragic hero assumes eventually, and Elissa grabs at his face. Wynne and Sten are hidden behind some debris, dealing with the darkspawn trying to go up the stairs. This is the perfect time, Elissa realizes, almost gleefully, and then everything breaks. This is the last time, Elissa realizes, leaning against him when her knees buckle, the last time –

"Alistair," she whispers, and when her voice breaks it's genuine. His face is sandy under her fingertips, a freshly–healed scar running from the cheekbone to the jaw. It'll be gone in hours, just like every other injury the two of them got on the road. Just like she will. Her thumb runs across the white tissue, and his mouth opens.

"I've always," Alistair starts, and Elissa kisses him, breathes life into him, her fingers hard and demanding as they curl around his neck, pulling her to him._ I've always loved you_, was that what he was going to say?_ I've always wanted to sacrifice myself like this_?_ I've always_, what? Elissa feels the wet tracks of tears running down her cheeks, feels his hands grasp her face, feels the betrayal in his voice when she knocks him out.

He falls like a king, knees first, face later, and Elissa rises like a queen, trembling fingers wrapping around the longsword. She doesn't look back.

* * *

The sixteenth time never comes: there is only an old soul, a bright light, and an overwhelming feeling of peace.


End file.
